Sons and Brothers
by Kapilavastu
Summary: What if Landon Ricketts had a son? And this son met Jack Marston? Well... Here we go...
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Hey guys this is my first Chapter of quite an epic FanFic in the making hopefully :P Yeah comment, and review :) Thanks :) Oh and this is set after the events of the main game, and yes Jack Marston will be appearing in later Chapters, so hold on. :P

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Chapter 1: Night Awakening

He felt his body stiff. His finger twitched, he could feel his heart slowly begin to beat, that dull thudding in his chest. He breathed in and felt his chest rise slowly, a sharp pain suddenly causing him to groan, and release his breath. He breathed shallower this time, avoiding the pain of the wound in his side. His eyelids opened shakily, twinkles filling his eyes, but not from the back of his eye. It was from the pitch of the sky above him, the moon full and much brighter than the rest of the sky. It bathed the desert in a small amount of light, enough to see silhouettes, but no detail.

He turned his neck to look right and left, each direction was the same, a great expanse of nothingness, being broken every now and again with the standing of a cactus or some kind of shrub or maybe some misshapen kind of rock. He looked back into the sky, looking into the stars, small questions and thoughts being born inside of his head. Where was he? What was the pain in his side? Was he even alive?

He felt his fingers again. He felt the rough stone and dust as they scratched upwards to push himself up, his sides burning with pain, he felt his clothes sticking.

'Must be blood.' He quickly thought to himself. He steadied himself, putting his hands on his knees. They were grazed and cut up.

"What the hell have I been doing?" He questioned himself, hoping to bring back some memory of what happened. But there was nothing, his mind was completely blank. He couldn't even remember his own name. He looked down. He was wearing a poncho with one side ripped and dried blood soaking the edges. Underneath that he wore a white shirt, he looked under his arm where the source of the pain, the white had been changed to a crimson colour of blood.

"Awwww fuck." He whispered. He looked down further, he was wearing a pair of denim trousers, they had been ripped to shreds around his grazes, but had kept together. On his feet were a pair of leather boots, intricate patterns traced across them. There were a pair of spurs at the bottom heel of them, but no horse to be seen. He ran a hand over his face and ran it through his long wispy hair, racking his memory to remember what happened, or even his own name. He heard the sound of metal hitting metal and looked down at his hip, there hanging there was a large sliver revolver, hung on a belt with rounds inserted into it. He slowly rolled to one side reaching to the wooden stock and withdrawing the weapon for the holster, laying it in his lap.

He rolled it around in his hand, seeing the flowing smooth patterns over it… He remembered suddenly.

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**AN: Sorry to end it on a cliffhanger like that :P But Chapter 2 will be up and running soon :) Thanks for reading :D  
Kaps **


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hey guys here's the second chapter! :D Things get a bit intense here and bloody so the M rating is for a reason :P**

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Chapter 2: Remembering Home

They were in an old bar, sat at a creaky wooden table that showed its years of servitude to drinks, fights and god knows what else. There was the heavy smell of tequila in the air, very pungent alcoholic smells flowing through his nose. The walls were a sandy stone colour, and the people, they were darker than him his father. And spoke a different language. He couldn't understand a single word, but this didn't worry him. He wouldn't be here too much longer. He looked around, at bar was another floozy flirting whit yet another man. He thought.

'Yet another victim to that bowlegged bitch.' He chuckled. He turned back to the matter at hand.

He was sat opposite an old man with grey, wispy hair, wrinkles showing his age being in his much elder age, late 50s to early 60s at least. He was holding this gun by the barrel, the stock pointing towards him, a voice damaged with years upon years of tobacco smoking, or chewing, he didn't really know, he was saying.

"Well done son, you're a good killer, just like I was. And so I give you your own revolver, like my papa did when I was a young gunslinger like yourself." He moved in a grabbed the weapon by its hefty wooden stock. His fingers wrapped around the stock, it perfectly fitting his hands, his finger instinctively going onto the trigger, not pulling it firmly, just resting on it.

"That there is a Single Action Army, Cavalry standard, a very good gun." He rolled it around in his hands, tracing the intricate swirling engravings with his eyes. It was a beautiful shine of silver, the polished wood glistening under the small electric light of the bar. He held it out straight and closed one eye, lining up the sights perfectly, just aiming at the floor. The old man said suddenly.

"Don't worry about the sights." He looked into his old grey eyes. "I set them earlier, and tested them too…" He paused. "I'm going to miss you son…" He saw his eyes twinkling with tears, before his father looked away, or so he thought was his father, you could never be sure of these things. He reached over and put a hand on his supposed father's shoulder and said, comfortingly.

"It's okay, I'll be back, you've taught me well, very well." He smiled. The man turned back towards him and smiled, before looking quickly over his shoulder, the smile disappearing quicker than a startled cougar, being replaced with a deathly look. He followed the track of his companion's eyes to outside the bar.

Opposite the building was a small church, built of the same lightly coloured stone as the bar, it reflected the midday sun and was a very bright colour of white. But that wasn't what his friend was looking at. In front of the bar, in the courtyard outside, a small group of men were arriving on horses. They wore green uniforms and had rifles on their backs, apart from one.

"Stay calm." Whispered his companion "They are probably looking for rebels… Like us. But they won't dare point us out… Yet." He patted him calmly, he then turned back and faced him. But he could feel their eyes on him piercing into his back, his acute senses began to kick in, he could hear the steel heels of the sergeant's boots on the stone floor going across the room, coming towards him.

He turned his chair round to face this man. The bar was now completely empty, the floozy and man at the bar had left, and the barmaid had retreated into a back room. The sergeant was now at an arm's length away from him.

He was big, not tall, but wide. His small beady eyes were deeply set in his face, it was a miracle how he could see anyway. On his wide face stood a proud bushy moustache and an angry expression, hidden by the crooks of fat on his neck. He said calmly.

"Problem sergeant?" He smiled, trying to lure him into a false sense of sense of security, before the round began to fly. He led back relaxed, leaning the back of his chair on the edge of the table. Smiling as he did, but laying a hand on his new weapon, just in case he didn't fall for this trap.

The sergeant said in English, with a Hispanic accent.

"No, nothing at all… But we had heard that there had been some troublesome Americans helping the rebels. Would you know these two Americans?" He smiled. The old man replied quickly.

"Why no, of course not, but there are a lot of Americans in Mexico, do you know what these two people look like?"

"Well descriptions of them said that they worked in a pair, an old and a young man, which made me think of you two. So, are you going to come with us?" He answered with a chuckle, the hand on his revolver tightening, in preparation.

"Now why would we want to do that? We were just having a nice drink." The sergeant turned to his men quickly and shouted.

"Seize them!" They both stood up quickly, the old man drawing his revolver and aiming towards the group of men who were fumbling with rifles, while he grabbed the sergeant by hooking an arm around his neck and planting the barrel of his weapon into the base of his back.

"No sudden moves." He said quickly to the sergeant. The sergeant shouted in blind ignorance of his command.

"Shoot them!" As he threw is hand into his holster, the young man's reaction was instant. He pulled the trigger firmly this time, blood showering from the front of the sergeant's chest. His body collapsed to the stone floor. Dead.

Bullets began to fly this way and that. The soldier's firing bolt action rifles towards the two rebels. The old man flipped up a table and dived behind it as the rounds burst the stone was behind him. The young man dived left, firing two more rounds as he landed and rolled behind the bar, shards of glass from bottles and shot glasses falling all around him.

"Damn, I wish I could still do that." The old man said chuckling, as he reached around a withdrew a second revolver, then popping up and loosing some rounds towards the soldiers, as they released another flurry of rounds missing him and being stopped by the table, sending shards of timber left, right and centre.

The young man chuckled, before bursting from beneath the bar and firing more rounds at the soldiers, who had now scattered into cover around the bar. One was just outside behind a table in the veranda, one at the door of the bar itself, and the last was running towards the horses. He had to be stopped. They couldn't do with anymore soldiers. He aimed his last two rounds at this man, they hit their mark perfectly. Stopping him dead in his tracks, he collapsed to the floor in a heap. The two rounds had penetrated through his back and exited through his chest, spraying blood in a large arc in front of him.

The horses startled and ran from the hitch, scattering out of the courtyard and out of his field of vision. Now they had no escape, they were to die now. He led back and moved his hands in his well trained and practiced reloading trick, loading six rounds into the separate chambers.

He looked at the old man and nodded. And he nodded back, a simple signal to both of them. He breathed deeply, preparing for the worst. Quickly he rolled over the top of the bar, running swiftly towards the door and out to the veranda, the old man following him through the left exit onto the flank of the veranda.

The soldier at the door came around and aimed his rifle, but his eyes widened to see him almost on top of him. The young man raised his weapon quicker than the soldier could react, shooting him through the skull, his head exploding in a spray of blood and skull fragment. Some splayed back towards him, catching blood drops on his coat. The soldier's head flicked back and he fell to the ground faster than a full sack of rye.

He jumped swiftly over the body and into the burning midday sun of the Mexican summer, instantly making him sweat. But he did not let anything falter him, he needed to find and kill this last man. A burning rage inside spurned him on. His eyes dashed his field of vision left and right, his weapon following his eyes in a straight arm, he heard the old man shout out.

"He's over here! I got the bastard!" He ran to the source of the shouting and saw the soldier laid on the ground, his rifle kicked away from him and holding one side of his face, his nose bleeding, probably broken. He looked at his companion.

"So what do we do with him now?" He asked. The old man fired mercilessly silencing the final soldier's painful screams, spraying his brain matter all over the floor.

"That." He said simply and easily, shrugging his shoulders.

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**AN: Hey again! Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! And leave reviews with feedback and stuff :P **


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Finally! Sorry to keep you guys waiting for it, but it is finally here! The meeting of Jack and Kyle! :D Hope enjoy the story :D  
Remember read and comment and review and all that stuff :D Thanks :) Kaps

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He slowly opened his eyes again, returning back to the dark night desert which he was in. But at least he remembered something… How he got this gun in his hands. And that he could kill, kill well. But still nothing about how he got here, where he was, or even WHO he was. He needed to move though, it was easy at night. No chance of dehydration with the blazing sun.

"Right… Let's get myself up now." He said to himself, as he rolled onto all fours, pain shooting through the side of his ribs and down his arms, almost collapsing under it. He fought through it and pushed himself up onto his knees, his breathing heavy with pain. But each breath hurt too, the round must have scraped his lung… Or worse. Taking in a large painful breath he forced himself to his feet, stumbling around like a drunk to find his balance. When he secured his balance he looked around in a circle, using his new vantage point to assess his surroundings. He used one hand to push and apply pressure to his wound.

He felt his warm blood flow over his hand. He coughed and spluttered slightly as the feel of his own blood made him come close to hurling his guts out. But he saw something that made his shoulders physically relax and drop as he sighed with relief. It was light, the night sky was penetrated by the light of a settlement. He began to stumble towards this light, salvation, healing, survival, all these words went through his mind, this was what the light meant to him.

After a few minutes of stumbling he passed a chapel on his left, it looked deserted, but there was a single light round the back of it. He ignored this and kept moving, he couldn't stop for anything, he turned to see a sign up ahead. On it was one word. Armadillo. In big white letters, he guessed it must be the name of the town. He kept staggering, he was so close, almost survival.

After a few more minutes he reached the back of a small hut like building, he nigh on collapsed right there, he needed to rest. But he needed to find someone who could help him. He was bleeding out, and nowhere is a good place to collapse. Death follows swiftly afterwards. Guiding himself with his hand across the wooden wall he made it the corner and pulled himself round it, his vision beginning to fade and the darkness beginning to envelop his eyes, he looked quickly upwards and saw the wooden sidewalk, with signs of several different amenities going away from him. His blurred vision prevented him from identifying any of them. He stumbled across what felt like another desert just crossing the street from the small hut to the sidewalk, barely lifting his feet from the ground, unable to, his legs aching and weak, blood draining from his wound faster than before.

He hit the lifted wooden sidewalk with his toes, forcing his body to fall flat on his front, his chest taking the brunt of the fall, knocking the little wind he had left out of him. He couldn't go any further. His side had bled too much, he was going to die here, led just seconds away from help, seconds away from survival. His head hit the wood, blacked out.

For the second time in as many hours he awoke suddenly in a strange place, this time the breath entering his lungs quickly his body sitting up immediately, reaching for his weapon.

The dawn sun struck Jack Marston's sleepy, drowsy eyes, making them slide open softly. He felt the soft cotton duvets over the lower half of his naked body, his bare chest feeling the warmth of the newly risen sun encouraging his body upwards. He rubbed his eyes with his hands, clearing the sleep from the sides of his eyes. He instinctively looked left and right quickly, checking the room around him for anything… Many months on the open plain could do that to you.

He was in a small room, the double bed he was sat on set in the corner of the room, a small chest opposite where he was sat, his clothes and other 'equipment' scattering throughout it. A small wooden wardrobe stood at the end of the bed, devoid of care and attention over many years, forcing into a state of disrepair. He heard the steel of the bed groan and creak from behind him, he turned to see just over his shoulder to see the body of the bar prostitute from last night, he didn't remember much else… Too much whisky he guessed.

But he had a job to do. And without it there would be no whisky, no sex, and no safe sleep. And the good old open plain once more. He sighed and stood up slowly, trying not to rouse the sleeping woman next to him. He quietly got dressed and armed himself once more, loading his weapons individually and precisely, no mistakes, he couldn't afford to be shot up… He didn't WANT to be shot up, life was good, and he enjoyed it… Most of the time.

He exited the room softly, stepping onto a balcony overlooking the main arrangement of tables below him. He already picked his targets as soon as he looked over. A group of dirty, loud and evil men were already causing trouble. Flirting with the waitresses, not paying for drinks and scaring away other customers… No wonder the barman was almost out of business. He reached inside his long coat and with steady calm hands he withdrew a personalised weapon. A Winchester Model 1897 with shorter barrel and removed stock, a pump-action shotgun that fitted inside his coat. It had been passed down from his father, and he had trusted it with his life on many an occasion, and so had he, and it had saved him every time.

He grasped the weapon's grip tightly and kept it hidden behind the opposite side to the men. His eyes were locked to them scanning those head to toe, they were all armed with revolvers, but there was one with a repeater. He needed to get close, his shotgun wouldn't be much use from here. He looked down covering his face with the brim of his Stetson for cover, advancing slowly towards the men. He kept his weapon hidden behind the tail of his long coat as he walked down the stairs, his eyes fixed on them. They still hadn't noticed his deathly stare as he reached a plateau at the bottom of the first flight of stairs. He turned to walk down the second of three flights now deciding to scan the bar for anymore of the gang members. There wasn't anyone else in the bar, just him and them. His stare returned to them. He reached the second plateau, his whole world seemed to go into slow motion as one the gang members raised his eyes from his drink and met Jack's gaze, the world stopping for just a moment, which seemed to fill a lifetime.

The gangster stood up and went for his weapon his eyes dropped to Jack's hidden hand, clasped around the grip of his shotgun. But he wasn't quick enough, by the time his fingers had touched the hold of his revolver, Jack had raised his shotgun and fired. The man's chest cavity had been cracked open by the force of the 12-gauge buckshot he had loaded. This also forced the man off his feet and into the air, making him land on the table behind him, crucified by buckshot.

The rest of the men were shocked and surprised as they all looked at Jack, he chambered a new round, pumping the slide to do so. The men heard this and all tried to follow their dead companion's actions, standing and reaching for their guns respectively. Jack's aim shifted right aiming between the shoulders of two other men.

'Good spread' he quickly thought as he fired, the kick of another round forced the shotgun's barrel up. The two men spun back around from the force of the shot hitting their bodies, not killing them. Just horrendously crippling their shoulders and opening gaping wounds down theirs sides. The other men were now firing back at him, sending splinters up around him. Jack fired a quick un-aimed shot towards them and dived over the side of the stairs landing on the piano, making it roll towards the bar. Bullets making uncontrolled chimes as they hit the piano. It continued to roll until it hit the bar, sending Jack over the end, he managed to twist in time that he landed on his back on the opposite side of the bar.

'Here we go again…' He thought quickly to himself as glass fell on him from above.

This was the second time that he had woken up in a strange place in as few hours, but this time he did remember how he got here, well he collapsed outside the doctors, and that's all he remembered. But the same sound that woke him reverberated around the town. Gunshots, several of them, it sounded like war. He sat up quickly, the wound on his side bandaged and was now feeling nearly no pain, just a dull thudding, not a sharp, stabbing pain like he remembered. He turned and sat on the side of the bed, scanning the room.

There was a table filled with bloody doctors tool next to him, the room itself was strangely clean. This guy must be a good doctor, or the best he could remember seeing. He checked under his arm, the wound area was well bandaged and clean. He stood up, his feet much more stable, and walked towards the balcony window, seeking the source of gunshots, instinct kicking in. He needed to defend himself, he had already been shot, and he didn't want to have that feeling again. He heard the door to the stairs behind him open, hearing the clicking in the latch.

He drew his weapon quickly and aimed towards the door. There was a middle-aged man there, he was wearing a suit and a black hat, and had a large bushy moustache. His eyes widened in surprise when he was presented with the business end of a revolver. His hands shot straight to the sky and he said quickly.

"Well you must be the rudest person I have ever taken a bullet out of." He jested. The young man lowered his weapon chuckling at the doctor's joke.

"I'm sorry, the gunshots have me on edge."

"Well that's why I came up here to hide. But I guess you could protect me now? You seem better than those useless Marshals." He looked at him with pleading eyes, smiling.

As soon as he finished that sentence a shot rang out, a lot closer than any of the others. Followed by the unique sound of cracking wood, the young man spun quickly and looked out the window, to see a tall man with slight build, he was holding a short barrelled pump-action shotgun skipping back. The young man's eyes followed him, scanning over his body. He wore a beige coat, with a white shirt and a red bandana around his neck. He wore a wide brimmed hat on his head, with long shoulder length, dark brown hair. He had a small moustache under a much defined nose and deep piercing brown eyes. He was much younger than himself, his skin softer and his body less damaged, more jumpy. He reminded of someone… Somehow… But he ignored this thought and followed him across the room, following his skipping across a wide window. He closed his eyes and prepared to tackle the man.

He accelerated to a sprint and threw his shoulder through the window. He felt shards of glass strike the side of his face as he flew through the air. Then felt a thud as he struck the man's chest, knocking him to the wooden walkway, pinning him. He rolled quickly and put his hand around his neck and putting his revolver to his head, pressing the barrel into his forehead, causing a circular indent in the skin.

"Who the fuck are you?" The man said angrily, through gritted teeth. A question he didn't know how to answer…

"Your worst nightmare, so don't do anything stupid." He said pressing harder into his skull.

"Neither should you." The man beneath him whispered, as he felt the end of the shotgun push into his stomach area.

"Well… We have ourselves a small dilemma here don't we?" He returned sarcastically, the shootout in the street still going on, drowning their voices in hails of gunfire. He heard footsteps from his right, from the stairs that the man had fired at before. A rough, dirty looking man was now stood at the top of the stairs, and was raising a rifle to his hip. They both reacted the same way, aiming their weapons at the assailant almost mirroring each other's movements almost exactly.

They were just quick enough, the man fired a round between them, just before they opened up on him shredding his body to pieces with buck shot and revolver rounds. This turned him to a ragdoll, causing him to fall back down the stairs in a heap.

"You're a good shot, whoever the hell you are." The young man turned the shotgun back towards him.

"So, time to pick a side." He said coldly. The man thought for a second, before pulling his weapon away and standing himself above him.

"Well I guess I'm with you. What's your name then?" He rested the barrel of the shotgun on his shoulder casually with the battle going on beneath him.

"Jack, Jack Marston." He saw his eyes scanning over him. Jack slowly offered a hand towards him. In which he took, and shook, giving a strong handshake.

"What about you?" Jack asked him as they shook hands. His head exploded with names, several of them, he just picked one randomly.

"Kyle, and I never known my surname." He said shakily. Jack nodded, accepting the lie, so he hoped.

"Well…" Jack said slowly, scanning him again. "Let's see if we can help these lousy deputies." He chuckled as he walked over to the edge of the walkway, drawing his revolver and unleashing shots downwards onto the rest of the gang. Kyle, or so he named himself, joined him there and began to shoot at them too, feeling the kick Jack shouted to him.

"By the way, MOVE!" He pushed him down resting his revolver on his back and firing at a man behind him. He felt the heat of the muzzle flash on his back, slowly he stood up again till he was back level with Jack which he then chuckled.

"Welcome to Armadillo."


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